Seven
by TheImmortalJimmyMance
Summary: Seven seconds, seven minutes, seven hours, seven days, seven weeks, seven months and seven years later. Post-finale fic. Jimmy POV.


Seven

Rating: T for mild sexual situations, some swearing.

Summary: Seven seconds, seven minutes, seven hours, seven days, seven weeks, seven months and seven years later. Post-finale fic.

Pairing: Jimmy/Abby (Jimmy POV)

Disclaimer: Doesn't belong to me. Totally the property of CBS.

_7 Seconds_

He feels as though he has broken every bone in his body.

Now that the adrenalin rush is over and the final threat has been eliminated, the last several days of no sleep, no food, near-dehydration, and foolhardy attempts at heroics are catching up with him. He laughs at the memory of the last movie he saw with Shane, where after a day of being shot and blown up and saving the day, the hero of course managed to make out with the heroine at the end. Jimmy's no action hero, he's just a fisherman, who didn't even really save the day. At this point he'd settle for being able to get off the ground.

_7 Minutes_

He's worried about Abby.

She's mostly sat there quietly staring at Henry's body that has now stopped bleeding into the surf. It reminds him of how she reacted when her mother died, and it terrifies him. When she finally starts moving again, he lets out a small sigh of relief, followed by an involuntary grunt of pain from the exertion of just that small action.

"Where does it hurt?" Abby finally asks, turning to him with anxious eyes, her voice stronger and more focused.

"Everywhere" he replies honestly, as she gently takes his arm and helps him start to sit up, finally relieving the pressure of that one really sharp rock in his back but putting unwanted pressure on some seriously bruised ribs. He ignores the perverse voice in the back of his mind that reminds him that Bruce Willis never needs to be helped up by a girl at the end of Die Hard, the one that sounds a lot like Shane.

"Do you think you can stand?" she asks, her gaze anxiously drifting back over to where her best-friend's body lies, before turning her attention back to him.

"I think so," he replies, slowly rolling to his knees and rising to his feet with a sharp intake of breath. He watches her in amusement, as she examines him anxiously, like a mother cat with a new kitten, taking note of every injury to describe it to the hospital later.

"I'm going to the boathouse to radio the Coast Guard. You stay here," she says, draping his arm over her shoulder to help support his weight, as she guides him to a large boulder.

"I'm going with you," he argues, shaking his head and blinking his eyes against the searing pain in his head that causes.

"Jimmy, you're not really in any shape to..."

"From now on wherever we go, we go together..."

_7 Hours_

He's glad to learn that he hasn't broken anything important.

His ribs hurt like a son of a bitch when they taped them, he's probably sprained everything twice, and the ER nurse cleaning his wounds was anything but gentle as she shook her head in disbelief at his dirty torn body. Still it could have been worse. He always knew he had a hard head, and now he has medical proof.

He looks across the room at the empty bed and sighs.

From the little he's been able to get out of Nurse Ratched, they're still running tests on Abby, concerned about a head injury she sustained a few days ago. They've got all sorts of stupid rules about what they can and can't tell him, so he listens at doors and learns that the situation is complicated by the fact that they've found traces of drugs in her system, but can't determine the dosages that were used. Abby's going to have to stay in the hospital for observation at least one night.

"Mr. Mance?" an official looking guy asks from the door, as he flashes a badge.

"It's Jimmy," he corrects him, sinking back into the mattress, trying to calm himself down and reassure himself that Abby will be fine.

"We have some questions for you and Ms. Mills. Do you think you're up to answering them?" the detective asks, sitting in the chair next to the bed without waiting for an invitation.

Jimmy tells them what he knows, which isn't as much as Abby knows, but it's enough to fill in most blanks. They've got a lot to go on from their investigation, and it matches the statements he and Abby made to the Coast Guard. Henry's blood sample from the church fire was run through the system and connected to several unsolved murders all over the Pacific Northwest. A DNA test on Henry also showed several shared alleles with John Wakefield, and shared alleles with the sample of Abby's blood as well. They've positively identified all of the bone fragments found in the church fire, and concluded the identities of the victims. They've also recovered Henry's body, right where he and Abby indicated it would be, to Jimmy's everlasting relief.

Finally, the detective asks the question they all seem to want answered. Why?

"Does it really matter?" Jimmy asks, anxiously watching the door for Abby's return.

"You don't want to know?" the detective queries him, surprised at his lack of interest.

"He murdered dozens of people, good people, people who loved him, people who trusted him. And he put Abby through hell. Why doesn't matter. They do," Jimmy replies shortly, as he spies Abby in the hallway, now being wheeled into the room. In the hospital gown and wheelchair, with an IV pole in tow that dwarfs her frame, she looks so vulnerable that Jimmy just wants to throw the detective out of the room and lock the door. He suspects that his plan would last about 10 seconds, before he's charged with obstruction of justice and Abby's verbally kicking his ass and insisting that she can take care of herself, but it's a good fantasy.

The detective catches the worn look on Abby's face and excuses himself, saying he'll come back tomorrow. Jimmy recognizes the look on Abby's face as one of nervous fear. She hates hospitals.

"It'll be like a slumber party, with really really bad food," he offers, thrilled when she gives a rare small laugh at his joke.

Nurse Ratched catches herself in a smile when she starts her shift the next morning, to find a sleeping Jimmy wrapped around Abby in her hospital bed. Then makes her face stern as she wakes him up and makes him return to his own.

_7 Days_

He's grateful for Shea Wellington.

To be more specific, he's grateful for the way that Shea Wellington has allowed herself to become the face of the victims of Harper's Island. She's starting a foundation for battered women in Trish's name and making the rounds of the talk shows. Her easy media access has allowed him and Abby some privacy, and her rich woman clout has allowed them to handle any necessary affairs without Abby having to set foot back on the island for longer than the few hours to attend Shane and Nikki's funerals. Today Charlie will have a full police burial, alongside Sarah, courtesy of the Seattle PD and shortly after he and Abby will never have to set foot in Washington State again.

"Are you sure you want to come to LA with me?" she repeats uncertainly, and he starts to wonder if she's regretting the invitation. She senses his unease and seeks to quickly reassure him.

"I want you to come, but what if you hate it there. I've lived there for 7 years and it still doesn't seem like home," she admits.

"That's because it didn't have me," he assures her, brushing a quick kiss across her forehead, as he packs the last of the few items from his home that he will be taking to California, swallowing hard at the picture of him and Shane christening the Sea Jay with a bottle of beer.

Abby wraps her arms around him from behind in a comforting gesture, careful not to put too much pressure on his still healing ribs as she studies the picture.

"I've got a great frame in the living room for that," she suggests.

He wonders why it took him 7 years of whining, revenge-plotting and a serial killer to do what he should have done years ago, go after Abby. The voice in his head that always sounds like Shane, tells him it's all the extra estrogen, and he laughs a little.

_7 Weeks_

He hates California.

The only damned thing this place has going for it is the pretty brunette he gets to wake up to every morning. And the cat's not so bad, all things considered, even though he's more of a dog guy.

Abby wasn't kidding when she told Kelly she lived in a tiny apartment, her entire studio is about the size of his old living room. So they're dealing with all the usual adjustments that come when two full grown adults who've lived alone for way too long decide to combine lives in a space the size of a gerbil's cage, not to mention a few unique-to-them issues: Abby's continued feelings of guilt for Henry's homicidal rampage; his tendency to panic if she's been out of his sight and out of contact for longer than a half hour; both of their still frequent nightmares from the shared horror on the island. And of course the fact that even though they've spent every night since their rescue in the same bed, they have yet to go "camping." He's starting to feel permanently hypothermic from the cold showers that have become a daily ritual, trying to be sure he's not pressuring her. He wonders if there's some sort of guideline about how long you should wait before having sex after surviving a horrible massacre, similar to the don't eat 1 hour before swimming rule. And then he feels like an ass for even worrying about this. He's alive, he's with Abby, and instead of bitching he should be grateful.

At least the insurance has paid up on his boat, making money the least of their worries for now. But he's growing restless without work to fill his days, especially when Abby's at work or her therapy appointments. He goes for a walk every day, but doesn't like to venture far from the apartment. The streets look the same to him, the same coffee bars, the same plastic people he doesn't know. He misses Harper's Island, the sense of belonging, the sense of community that he's grown up with. He knows that even Harper's Island isn't the same anymore. Most of the locals have gone elsewhere. Julia moved in with her daughter and son-in-law in Bremerton, Doc Campbell decided to retire to Florida, and Karena packed up her VW van with her tarot cards and set out for Baja.

Some days, this place doesn't seem so bad. Abby dragged him to a museum she seemed to really enjoy the other day, and there are more books in one room of the local library than there were on the whole of Harper's Island. But it isn't home. He can sense it, and so can Abby. He doesn't fit here, and he is starting to think he never will.

He gets back from his walk, and stares at the tent in the middle of their tiny living room in confusion. Abby peers out from the mesh door and nods her head for him to come inside. As he climbs through and zips the door behind him, he can't help but laugh as he spies the collection of junk food, the ten books in the corner including a Lisa Frank notebook with _Abby luvs Jimmy_ doodled on it in purple marker, and the single sleeping bag, shaking his head in amazement.

"I thought that maybe we could get a do-over," Abby explains nervously, wiping her palms on her jean clad thighs.

He's about to ask her if she's sure, to reassure her that there's no pressure, when Abby stops his words with an eager kiss. The voice in his head that always sounds like Shane tells him to shut up and go for it. He does.

Later when they're trying to explain to the fire department how they set off the sprinklers trying to toast marshmallows over a candle, he realizes two things: that the LAFD doesn't have much of a sense of humor at 1 a.m. and that he wants to spend the rest of his life making Abby Mills laugh. And with those comes the final realization, that home is with Abby.

_7 Months_

Abby should he home by now.

He tries her cell phone, but it keeps going to voice mail. He calls the paper, and they inform him she left a couple hours ago. He tries to keep himself calm, reminding himself that with LA traffic, she's not really that late. If he calls the LAPD and reports her missing, they will laugh in his face, then read the file and give him that pitying stare and remind him that both Wakefields are dead. He tries to take his mind off it. He flips through cable channels, but sports don't interest him, and there's way too much bad news – people getting murdered, robbed, kidnapped, so he quickly turns off the television.

It was going too well, he tells himself. They hadn't had nightmares in over 2 weeks, and there were finally nearly-whole days that they didn't think about what had happened on Harper's Island, too busy building their life together. He's found a job on a tourist boat that makes runs to Catalina, and even made a couple of friends that would never replace Shane, but weren't bad for sharing a drink or round of pool. There was a new girl at the paper that Abby really liked, and they had had lunch a couple of times (after Shea's detective gave Jimmy a full background check). They were moving on, they were healing.

He checks his cell phone again, just in case he somehow turned off the ringer, or Abby has sent him a text in the last few seconds, but there's nothing. He's grabbed his keys and is about to start just driving around Los Angeles, looking for her, when his phone rings, the caller ID showing an unfamiliar number. Swallowing hard he answers.

The drive to the hospital seems to take forever, as his mind swirls with worst case scenarios. His heart is racing as quickly as his mind, and he nearly gets into an accident turning into the unfamiliar Emergency Room parking lot. He storms through the doors, and goes right to the first person in scrubs he can find. Gone is the usual low-key aw shucks politeness, and in its place is a man possessed. The nurse directs him to chairs and he can feel the old white hot rage coming back, from those days when it seemed like the whole world had conspired to keep them apart. He's foolishly contemplating a break past the nurse's desk, when he sees her.

"Jimmy, I'm okay," she assures him, standing there balanced precariously on crutches, bandaged and bruised, but whole and alive.

Suddenly he can't breathe.

"Jimmy!" she yells anxiously, rushing toward him as fast as the crutches will allow. Quickly reaching his side, she ushers him into a chair, and directs him to put his head between his knees, gently rubbing his back in soothing circles as the tears fall unbidden from his eyes.

A few minutes later, the incident has passed and he feels like an idiot, certain that everyone in the hospital has seen his meltdown. He just wants to take Abby home, and lock the door. He sheepishly gathers her discharge papers, and helps her out to the truck.

"I'm not going anywhere," she assures him, wrapping him tightly in her arms.

A week later at the L'il Chapel of Luv in Vegas, he has that promise in writing.

_7 Years_

He doesn't like the looks of their new neighbor.

Sure he seems innocent enough, all blond and blue-eyed with an angelic gap-toothed smile. But Jimmy knows better. That is not a six-year old standing out on the porch offering his 4 year old daughter a homemade chocolate chip cookie. That is Charlie Mills' revenge from beyond the grave.

"He looks shifty," he complains, as Abby arches her brow at him and tries very hard not to laugh.

"He's six, and he's very sweet," she counters.

"He's too old for her," he argues.

"Which is why we will tell him no if he asks for her hand in marriage today. It's a cookie, Jimmy. It's good that she's making friends," she reminds him, her rationality especially annoying to him.

"You're the one who decided that Charlie should have the same island upbringing we did, remember? The nice small town where everyone knows one another, low crime rate, magical summers of adventures along the ocean, did you really think Avalon wouldn't have boys her age?" Abby asks him, her voice a mix of incredulity and amusement.

"I didn't think I had to worry about boys yet," he sputters, as Abby rubs his shoulder sympathetically.

"I think you've still got a few years as her number one guy left," she murmurs into his ear, as they continue to watch from the window. Charlie offers the little boy a heart-stopping smile, and half of the cookie. He looks at her like she's an astronaut riding on a firetruck.

"Oh hell," he groans.

It's been seven years, and finally some overdue therapy after his hospital panic attack, but his overprotectiveness will probably never truly go away. He can no longer look at the world without seeing the potential danger lurking in every corner, even on this idyllic sun-drenched island. He can never forget that their inability to see through Henry's facade until it was too late, almost cost him and Abby their lives. The possibility of his little girl ever having to go through something like that, or even the ordinary broken heart of growing up, makes his blood run cold. Lately, he is experiencing a lot of newfound sympathy for Abby's father.

"What if he ends up being her Henry Dunn," he asks Abby, his voice barely a whisper, as he scrutinizes the interaction between the youngsters, searching for any sign of an unhealthy obsession developing.

"And what if he's her Jimmy Mance?" she whispers back gently, dropping a kiss on his cheek, before going outside to join the children.

He's going to need a good shotgun either way, the voice in his head that always sounds like Shane says. He takes a deep breath, screws up his courage, and joins his wife on the porch to size up the competition.


End file.
